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by RosemarysBabysitter (TashaElizabeth)



Series: Goretober Prompts [2]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Eye Licking, Eye Trauma, Gore, M/M, Oculolinctus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 15:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12256887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TashaElizabeth/pseuds/RosemarysBabysitter
Summary: Goretober Prompt: Eye Trauma





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**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I wrote this when I had perfectly good HBK detached retina to work with but such is the whims of Goretober.
> 
> Apologies if I've made any errors due to insufficient research.

The worst fight Jon had ever been in ended when his zygomatic bone interrupted the swinging of a three inch pocket knife into his face. In all the blood and hoarse shouting, the promoter got away and didn’t actually end up giving any of them any of the money which had led to the fight to begin with.

Everyone in the emergency room told him he was very lucky, which he supposed he was, in the sense that he could have been dead or split open through his eyebrow, scabbing over to scar. He lost the eye though. Something went wrong way in the back of it and they had to take the whole thing out. 

“You could do a pirate gimmick,” Sami told him. “‘Argh. I’ll be taking your gold belt now.”

Jon told him to shut up. 

He healed up real good though, eventually. First it was bruised up and bloody and then it was faded green and scabbing over. At first he couldn’t find a prosthetic that fully matched the blue of his other eye, especially on camera, but he made it work for him. It was a lot easier to convince people you were violently deranged when your left eye is cloudy grey and wandering. And anyway, he eventually got a better one and a better one and he stopped taking kicks to face because he’d misjudged his distances and everything was cool.

By the time he was Dean you could barely even tell anything had happened. By the time he found his brothers he didn’t even remember to tell them about it until one late night on the road, with them sprawled out all bruised and battered in the car. He’d only pulled the story out to try and top Seth’s ‘worst indie venue ever’ anecdote.

“So you’ve only got one eye?” Roman asked him. “I mean, I know you got two but...one of them…” He was driving and it felt like he was trying to drive over every single pothole on the way to Boston. He was glancing back and forth from the road to Dean, sitting sideways on the backseat with his back against a door. 

“It’s glass,” Dean said. “Er, I think it’s some kind of acrylic, but yeah, fake.”

Roman shook his head and then turned back to gaze fixedly on the road.

“Take it out,” Seth said, teasingly. He had turned all the way around in the passenger seat to study Dean’s face. His face was split wide with the giddiness that hits some people around grime and gore.

“No.”

The car flew over another pot hole, rattling on the struts. Dean’s soda fizzed over in his hand and he sucked in a mouthful of foam to protect the upholstery.

“Why?” Seth asked, his voice prolonged whine. 

Dean swallowed the foam. “Because it's disgusting, dude. It’s just a hole in my head.”

He saw Roman flinch and assumed it was revulsion.

“So we don’t get to see it?” Seth asked.

Dean dragged his gaze away from Roman’s profile and looked to Seth. “No.”

Seth pouted and threw a french fry at Dean’s face.

By the time he and Roman were together, with all the ill conceived late night humping and wacky sexual exploration that implied, it was just supposed to be a thing. Like Roman’s tattoo. Like his brand. Like every other stupid scar on Dean’s body. But it wasn’t.

It was mostly just the way Roman looked at him. Or didn’t look at him. Or would glance at him when he thought Dean was looking somewhere else and then swallow hard and look away. Once Roman walked in on him rinsing his eye under the tap and nearly choked on his own spit, ramming his shoulder into the doorframe he back pedaled out of the room so fast.

So Roman thought it was gross. Which was okay. Dean worked on the assumption that he was being fairly revolting about 75% of the time. Hell, Dean thought it was pretty gross himself most days. That’s why he didn’t mention it, why he’d never pulled it out during a match after a particularly vicious blow to the head or something like that, though the idea had occurred to him. He just hid it with jerky movements and raised chin. He just tried to forget it.

But Roman didn’t seem to forget it. If anything Roman was all about Dean’s eyes. Called him “pretty eyes” and “blue eyed boy”. Always asked Dean to look at him when Dean was sucking him off. Pushing him in front of more than one locker room mirror for gropes and groans. Raking back Dean’s hair and holding his head still when they were fucking so that he could come with his gaze locked on Dean’s face.

And then one day, while Dean was getting it real good on his back in a hotel room in Kansas, he realized Roman wasn’t looking where Dean could actually see. 

Dean twisted his fingers into the sheets and closed both his eyes when he came. 

After sluicing off in the shower Dean went about questioning Roman in his usual delicate way.

“What’s with you and the eye thing?,” he asked, flopping down on the bed with a towel around his hips.

Roman looked stricken.

They had to bicker back and forth for awhile, long enough for Dean’s hair to dry and their pizza to get delivered. Roman was a little easier talk to once Dean got two slices of pepperoni into him.

“Look, its sick man. Too sick. Let’s not talk about it.”

Dean merely looked at him. Even Roman seemed to understand that calling something “too sick” for Dean Ambrose was waving a red flag in front of a bull. Roman sighed, mortified by his own willingness to talk. He clenched his hands together and looked down at them.

“I just...I like it,” Roman said awkwardly. “It’s different. It’s you. I like...there was this thing that happened and it caused you all this pain but now that’s over. Now I can look through the place where the pain was and see into you. I could actually look into your head.” He was getting a little worked up and Dean liked the look of that. “That’s, like, everything I like about you, pretty...boy.”

“Why didn’t you ever…”

“‘Hey, baby,’” Roman said with biting sarcasm. “‘I know you get beat up for money everyday, but why don’t you come over here and let me…” He stammered momentarily. “‘Let me _skullfuck_ you.’ No way. No fucking way. You can’t say that. I can’t say that. I can’t deal with being that guy. I can barely even think about it.” 

He was shaking his head, kneading his knuckles between his fingers.

The word had sent a shiver up Dean’s spine. He sat in the thought of it for a while and then he blew a raspberry. “That’s dumb,” he said, finally. “If you want to do it and I want it done to me it can’t be that sick. It can’t really mean anything.”

Roman changed the subject by shoving pizza at Dean until he ate it.

The longest fight Dean had ever been in ended with his eye on the bedside table and with Roman sitting up against the headboard, so keyed up he was smearing wet against Dean’s stomach before Dean had even worked himself open. It ended with Dean sinking down on Roman’s dick with a groan from Roman that made his eyelids want to flutter shut so that he had to focus and work to keep them open. It ended with Roman dragging him close and smearing kisses over every inch of Dean’s face, up and down his neck, and then finally, finally licking across the bridge of Dean’s nose and sliding the tip of his tongue into the hot, wet, pocket of his empty eye socket. 

It felt okay, even good in a shivering, sensual pressure and temperature kind of way. But what really got him off, what sent Dean bouncing on Roman’s dick and gripping tight to the back of Roman’s neck, wasn’t something as simple as the feeling. It wasn’t even the way Roman bucked and moaned and pulled Dean’s hips down so tight against his own that Dean thought he might disintegrate. No.

It was the way Roman looked at him, looked at all of him, as though he were precious and beautiful and whole.


End file.
